Sacrifices
by SameSensei
Summary: The heir to the position of Grand Highblood wakes to find his predecessor dead. He is thrust into the new role as quickly as time will allow. Warning for violence and snarky bitches.


Your name is Zillyhoo Makara, heir- No, former heir to the throne of subbjugglators, and you have never felt as nervous as you do now.

You were woken up this morning with a desperate push and the grating, quivering voice of a servant. You had thought, briefly, of crushing her right in the spot she stood when you begin to register her rushed and frantic explanation.

"Explain to me again, filth-blood. SLOWER." You rumble, not exactly sure you could've ever heard right.

She trembles at the sight of your irritated and unkempt appearance, but repeats herself, "I'm sorry to have w-woken you, Your Grace, but it was urgent. The previous and long-standing Grand Highblood has…" She hesitates, tugging at her worn and tattered sleeves, "He's dead. Your presence is immediately-"

You swat her away from you before she can finish, causing her to fall on all fours to the floor, emitting a startled shriek, more out of shock than anything.

The crazy old fucker's finally kicked it, and now you're left hardly past 8 and a half sweeps and with an empire in dire need of a co-ruler who could not, you think with increasing nausea, ever in the Green Sun's rise and set, be you.

That, however, was hours ago. As of now, you are being scratched and dressed and painted up, your hair brushed out to look longer and your clothes being replaced with a near carbon-copy replica of his. You are being made out to look like a grown-up today, and you bite your lip with the realization that must be what you are, as of the moment your processor's blood-pusher stopped pumping.

They say, in dying exasperation, to keep still for the umpteenth time. You could still, even after an hour and twenty minutes of this uncomfortable styling, be mistaken for a mere heir and not the very Grand Highblood himself, which is, of course, unacceptable. You are to step seamlessly into your new position, and the public eye will be fixed on how much you look as well as act like an adult.

You're pulled out of your thoughts by a particularly forceful pull on your tangled mane. It will never look this clean again, and only being combed at the present moment because the length of your hair somehow makes you look older. You don't really understand it all, and you, of course, find it to be bullshit, but this is something you don't get a say in. A tradition of old that is not to be compromised, with or without your huffed complaints.

Much later than it should have taken, they are done with you and you are pushed off to another room of impatient and anxious trolls who look you up and down like an expensive wine glass at the very corner of a table. They explain to you that today and many of the days after will be filled with rushed and too-late grooming on how you may or may not act, what, in full detail , you are expected to do, who you are to consort with and how much the time for you to paint with be drastically shortened. They do not have time, they tell you, with tired rubs to their aching heads, to explain much here. The official initiation ceremony for your position must be soon, timed just before sun-rise, leaving your subjects with the effect of a new ruler and a completely new troll. The child that was yesterday is dead and you were hatched, this very day, as a responsible adult.

You are then told exactly what to say and how to walk, to bare your teeth at every given opportunity, and, most importantly, that you are going to burn "this."

"This" would be a tiny and unclean pillow that you recognize as the thing you'd drooled on for who knows how many nights and treated like any other wriggler would treat a stuffed beast.

"And I must?" You question, kneading your claws into the ripped, ancient fabric.

"And you must," Is the weary and cool reply.

You're tempted to ask why, if only to exasperate them further, but you think you know. You can't have any childish reminders of what you were, because it will never be close to what you must be now.

With that, they silently deem themselves done with you, and you are herded into yet another goddamn room to wait, this time alone. Her Condesce, who, you have not forgotten and think again, with a snort, is hardly older than yourself, will be here shortly to speak with you a bit before you go on. You doubt she'll do much but pull horrible one-liners peppered with snark about how unqualified you are, but it is, again, a tradition of old and the old fools above you would just burst to pieces of bloody pulp if you stepped away from the ancient ways of the empire.

It seems her Condesce is either running late or is hovering outside the door and making you wait for the simple feat of spiting you, or so it seems after waiting so long.

You sit on the carpeted ground and stare at your still hands, pale from being clenched so hard in nervousness and sheer annoyance. It seems they're trembling. Ha. It's almost funny. You've tried ignoring the creeping fear, and have done well until now, but with the sudden lack of pushing hands and condescending voices, you are trapped here with your own thoughts and those alone.

Subbjugglators are not meant to be scared or nervous. They are definitely not supposed to feel so small and young, either, especially not you, out of all of them. You were bred for this. Hatched for the mere honor of sitting on the throne they will provide you.

This does nothing to calm you, you find.

You could vomit, at the present moment, really. You are not sure you can do this. In fact, maybe you can't. That does not matter, however. You will, whether you're able or not. No one has a chance at the position but you. No land-dweller has higher blood, and no one will for a long stretch of time. Such doubts, you think, shakily as one can think, would require severe punishment if you'd ever thought to speak them out loud.

You push your too-smooth hair out of your face with a distressed grunt, where it has seemingly wandered without your movement. You loathe the fact that you could ever feel frightened of becoming the most important thing you were ever meant to be, and attempt to compose yourself, reminding yourself that you must, you will, you can, and if you vomit on a carpet so finely made they're going to cull you right where you-

Your attention is brought from your own worrying to a stylish and ill-fitting pair of heels click-clacking in near slow-motion across the floor, the sounds muffled by the fabric covering it but definitely there.

"Your Grandness," Her Condesce addresses you in mock-respect, even going so far as to give you a slight curtsy, which must be a new and special way of insulting from now on, you'd say. You hoist yourself up to tower above her, not that it ever has or ever will intimidate her, and give her a scowl.

You've missed her more than you realized.

In return for your scowl, you receive a small upturned-twitch of the lips as her freshly manicured nails reach up, quicker than you can react, and tap a steady rhythm against your horns. You snarl and push her, forcefully as you dare, away from you. You've hated it since she first started doing it. Any other troll would have a neck full of fork for that, but at the present moment, said fork is leaning idly against her, gold shining in the least threatening position you've seen in a long while.

You huff and cross your arms at her. You hope she doesn't stall too much. Sunrise will approach before you give it a thought, at this rate, and while you do feel queasy, having to do this all again tomorrow and while the previous provider of this role is in much less fresh of a state is not a comforting thought.

Her Condesce curves around you to sit on an actual chair, an object you've been ignoring for the time you've spent in here and have never been fond of, but you will, of course, be damned if you'll sit at her feet like a common filthy rust-blood, so you take the seat next to hers.

"You're doing well, I take it?" She asks silkily and with the never-fading tone of sarcasm.

Oh, wonderful, she does plan to stall. "Hurry up and GET ON WITH IT, before I die along with the old man."

She ignores you, fins flickering. "Yes, well, I'd assumed so. You're just so chipper this evening, Great and Strong Subbjugglator."

"I'm serious, you godforsaken menace, THERE IS A TIME AND A PLACE FOR THIS and it is CERTAINLY NOT HERE."

The fuchsia surface of her lips part in a malicious imitation of a smile, revealing neat rows of pointed, white teeth. You bare your own longer and more jagged fangs as she speaks again, "My, aren't we crabby. Did they take away your afternoon nap in all this commotion?"

"As a matter of fact, THEY DID AND IT'D BE NICE IF YOU COULD RESPECT THAT." The sharp, thick designs of your paint hide the exact measures of your exhaustion well, even if it had only been your hand at a joke.

"I see," She drawls, dragging the word out so long you're sure she meant for you to take it as 'sea', "Although what would be nice for you and what I'm willing to partake in are two separate matters entirely, Your Grandness." She giggles, the witch. "But we should be getting to the straight business we were sent to discuss, now, if you'd let me continue, chatterbox."

You open your mouth to retort, but decide better of it. She will turn any word out of your mouth into an excuse to prolong this, you know by now. She takes the hint, yawning before continuing, "I'd say this is the part where I'm supposed to give you a lecture on upholding yourself with the proper respect and responsibility…" She yawns again, loudly and more evidently fake this time around, "And basically, in simple terms, not fucking up."

You watch her, drumming in your fingers in a hurried pattern, as if it will signal her to stop playing with you and let you go. She seems happy to waste both your respective times, in any case, so it's not going to do much more than spur her onwards in her efforts to make your head explode.

She continues, " Now, I know that's an unfamiliar concept to you, as well as," She licks her lips, as obnoxiously as she can without sacrificing any dignity, " The rest of your kind, but in the future, you'll do well not to let go of your club mid-swing and at the same time sprain your wrist. You must enjoy being such an embarrassment, I know, dear, but the empire has had its fill of embarrassments as of late, and your contributions simply aren't needed."

You feel an angry flush come over your features, and you feel this marks an appropriate time to remind her, " IT WAS HOT and my hands were SLIPPERY. Besides, you can't even LIFT ONE OF-"

"Do not interrupt me when I speak to you, Zillyhoo," She says, cool and slow with a sharp and quieting edge. It infuriates you, the way she stays so calm when all you can seem to do is get yourself worked up. "I'm not finished. " She clears her throat, an exaggerated and familiar gesture, "If you do, somehow manage to revert back to the mannerisms of a wriggler, or humiliate the people who work hard to make it look like you know what you're doing," Her lips twitch upward, "And by that I mean _me,_ you can expect a nice, clean stab through your scrawny chest. Is that understood?"

You sneer, but nod your head. She's only half-kidding. "Anything else, PRINCESS?"

She visibly twitches, but brushes off the loathed nickname and retorts, "Yes. I'm astonished you'd forgotten, actually." She moves to stand, and motions for you to haul yourself up with her.

"Close your eyes and lower your head."

You scowl, wary of her doing something or another to your hair while she has the chance, but listen to her, nonetheless. You lower yourself to one knee, bow your head and shut your eyes. If she expects to do anything to it, she might as well be able to reach it.

In reality, she does nothing to it. You feel a strange weight on your neck and shoulders, the clanking of small objects hitting each other loud and near-screeching as you move to get up.

"It was his," She says, trying her best to sound disinterested.

Your fingers rake over the thing on your neck, the texture unfamiliar. You look down, though, and what you see makes you feel almost surreal. It is a necklace, one you've seen too many times to count, the bones it's constructed of brittle and yellowed.

The one and only neck you've seen it rest on was of "him", your predecessor, and one who little miss Condi decided is not worthy of being named. The weight of it on you is something akin to the sinking weight you feel in the pit of your stomach. You gulp, and it jangles. If there ever was a point of turning back, though you know there wasn't and never will be, it certainly would not be now.

You turn to leave, ever-clinking bones heavy around your shoulders, when she stops you again, with a sickly dripping-sweet, "I'm not_ finished_, Your Grandness," her meticulously painted claws digging into your back.

You huff and turn back to her, hunching your shoulders. " What is it NOW?"

She gives you a sly smirk, lip-stick shining from the sheer amount she's globbed on. She purrs, "One more thing, before you go out to make a real grown-up fool of yourself," pulling you downwards once more. She must want to whisper a parting insult, or something of the like. You stare into her eyes; your faces leveled, and scowl, daring her to.

Instead, you find your head turned and a few rows of scraping teeth pushing into your gums, a tongue darting out and teasing yours. She's kissing you. Fuck, she's kissing you and you're not vomiting.

…It could be worse, you decide. You hesitate for a moment longer before shrugging your shoulders and reciprocating, getting a good nip at the side of her mouth before she removes herself, pushing you back. Her bottom lip is smudged with grey, and you're sure her shade of eye-wrenching fuchsia stains yours as well.

"Get going," She remarks as casually as she'd tell you the weather, "Before you make yourself late."

You don't linger, nearly tripping over yourself in a long-awaited escape to the most important ritual of your and most of these squirming rust-blood's lives. When you're not facing each other, you make a face to yourself. You taste fish.

They are waiting for you when you burst outside; the crowds of lower-bloods being subdued to back themselves away at your presence. You resist the urge to spit down at them and watch them grovel to catch it. Now isn't the best time. Later, you think, when the sun is set again.

You are not numb to the air of impatience as they usher you forwards, your elder subbjugglators trying their best to look content with the job instead of plain irritated. They grip your arms as if you will run from them otherwise, which would be just about the stupidest idea. His- Your necklace swings and digs into your throat, and you gulp as you realize he's already been brought out to you. You really did take a while.

His massive corpse is lain out, hands folded and jagged teeth worming their way out of his mouth to stick in all directions, though he doesn't have all of them left. His clothes and paint have not been touched, his hair still wild and longer than the entirety of your body three times over.

You wonder if you will look like that when you're dead, or if you'll ever grow to be so impossibly humongous. You suppose you will, strange as it seems now, with your clumsy, scraggly bones caving in and jutting out in the most awkward of places.

" Pray," An older female tells you.

Well, they didn't exactly tell you about this part. You have had little experience in praying, and you're not sure if they want you to pray aloud or simply clasp your hands, close your eyes and pretend to.

You kneel, in any case, hands together and eyes on him. Even in death, he grins at you, and you can almost hear, "_What a sight to see YOU are, WRIGGLER,"_ from his decaying maw. You, in your nervousness, think he might have even twitched, but you straighten your shoulders and chalk it up to your imagination.

They stare at you expectantly, and you clear your throat. Now or never, you're certain.

You lower your head and shut your eyes, murmuring about the Messiahs and how he had been relevant in staving off your failure, an example of how to do the job you will and are being thrust into. You're only half bullshitting, too. He was most definitely batshit, and hadn't really helped you on purpose, you don't think, but if anything he had been an example of what you don't want to become.

You finish and get up, looking down at him again. He hasn't moved, of course, you don't know why you'd expect any different. They move towards you again, clawing into your shoulder blades as they turn you around. The necklace clanks. The fire has been lit, and it radiates unwelcomed heat. You're sweating now, as you remember what it is you've been clutching at all this time.

If pillows had eyes, you wouldn't dare look down at it. It's too small to be of much real use to you now, as you've grown a great deal in the past sweeps since you claimed it. You'd slept with it last night, still, not that you'd admit it.

You don't want to stall this any longer, but you don't know if they'll notice you ripping off a tiny piece. It is snot-stained and filthy, but it is yours, and you get the emptiest feeling when you think of it burning to ash in the sweltering flames.

There will be badly-concealed complaining of your constant pausing from the chamber-maids tomorrow, but you don't care. You claw a tiny bit of fabric and a drop of stuffing into your palm, and quick as you are to hesitate, you fling the rest of it into the fire. It crumples and blackens, and you find you feel a little sick. You feel silly, too, but mostly nauseous.

You watch it's crisp and un-godly smelling form fall to ashes. It's done now. You turn, ready to get back to other and more important aspects of your position, but you are stopped yet again. This puzzles you. They told you it would be over by now. Do they want you to say something more? Or, lord help you; make a speech, just to see you squirm again.

Instead, they hold you still. You hear footsteps behind you and a loud declaration of, " Do not fret, brothers and sisters, the boy's blood shall spill before the sun rises."

They really didn't explain that part to you. Perhaps it's all been a sham, they were never planning to coronate you, you were slated for death alongside him since the second his breath stopped and they'll just find someone else, more experienced and less shockingly stupid, who can handle his clubs and never hesitates before he speaks, who can roar and smash and hunt with the rest of them.

You suppose life as an outcast is better than none at all. You begin to struggle and open your mouth to scream, hardly even thinking of the possibility your voice will crack, just adding to the humor of the whole situation. It must be funny to everyone who isn't you.

Strong hands are clamped over your mouth before you can get a sound out. "Take the pain in stride, child," grumbles a tired and raspy voice, " They'll be over with it before they start."

Well, looks like you're not getting away. You tremble in the troll's grip and wait for them to get it over with. If you're to die, then you will. Another subbjugglator who you're sure you've seen before comes out from behind you, but what he brandishes is no club.

He tosses a knife back and forth between his hands, one smeared with the remnants of another's blood, dried, flaking and indigo. He smiles at you, dull and yellowed teeth going well with the mantra of the bones around your neck.

"Don't move a twitch," he grins, his painted smile stretching to gross and unnerving lengths. The hands around your lips are removed and you wait to see what he'll do. Murder from your caste is rarely ever preformed with knives, you know, but you're not sure what else they'd want to do with you.

He takes hold of your head and tilts it forward. You try to stay still.

He brings the blade to the very tip of your lips and pushes down, a drop of indigo dripping through the stark white of the special grease they put on your face, just for today. You hold back cries, but you don't dare to move.

He pushes down again, hard and quick and you gasp from the pain. He only goes further, and now the small number of rivulets cascade through your make-up like grotesque waterfalls and Oh God , God, no, no, please, your lips and cheek are tearing, this can't be real, what are they doing to you.

The necklace jangles. Your breath comes out in panicked pants, and you're finding it harder and harder to stay still. He curves up now and you actually howl. He's cut into your ear the smallest bit, and he still smiles at you. You must look so much better, you think, drenched and hidden by blood, for someone to smile so wide while they slice you open.

He moves to the other side to start again. Your blood plunks to the ground and you want to vomit, but you're afraid if you do, it'll come out the sides of your face as well. It burns worse than you've ever felt, and your mutilator is no more merciful. He is slow and deliberate up until the last curve, and he slits further into your ear this time. You can feel every speck of blood running like fresh lusus-milk down your cheeks as he backs away.

He bows. Someone bellows, "The task is done. All kneel to the greatest and grandest of all subbjugglators."

And fuck, do they. No one is standing around you now, trolls of every color on their knees. You look back at them, face creased by fear and the rising pressure of sobs in your throat, wounds untended. And face bloodied.

They smile, and you suppose you're smiling back.


End file.
